


banking on maybe

by Alethia



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Casual Sex, Developing Relationship, M/M, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Porn Battle, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-18
Updated: 2010-07-18
Packaged: 2018-03-12 21:54:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3356672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alethia/pseuds/Alethia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They never made any promises.</p>
            </blockquote>





	banking on maybe

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based on the fictionalized characters in the HBO miniseries, _Generation Kill_ , as written by Ed Burns and David Simon and as portrayed by Alexander Skarsgard, Stark Sands, and others. It is a work of fiction, ergo it never happened.
> 
> Written for Porn Battle X and can be found [here](http://oxoniensis.dreamwidth.org/30726.html?thread=3994374#cmt3994374). Prompt was "commitment." Also posted on [LJ](http://alethialia.livejournal.com/465128.html).

They never made any promises. 

Brad simply called or showed up, always testing, prodding. Was there someone else? Was there a place in Nate's life for him? Not that he'd ever _ask_ any of that. No, he much preferred oblique questions or scanning his eyes behind Nate, around his apartment, seeking out some phantom presence that he never found, but always expected.

Nate never called him on it. Words were bullshit, anyway. Only actions mattered. 

***

Nate answered the phone distractedly, having absolutely no luck tracking down the article in this footnote. The Internet fucking _failed_. 

"Hey."

Nate's head snapped up, attention stolen with that single syllable. Thoughts of footnotes and articles faded to the background as he sat back in his chair, heard Brad take a breath on the other end of the line. "Hey," he greeted warmly, finally.

"You busy?"

Nate's heart sped up, nerves tingling at the prospect of Brad, in the flesh. He looked blindly at his paper-strewn desk. He had two articles to proof, a PR call, and three interviews to give. And that was just tomorrow. 

"Never."

Brad scoffed. It made Nate grin just to hear it. "Maybe I'll see you," Brad said, voice full of something.

"Maybe you will." Another laugh and Brad hung up. He wasn't big on goodbye. 

***

Nate's run sucked. It sucked for no good reason—beyond his distraction and the existence of pedestrians—and all Nate wanted was to get out of his clinging shirt. And break out the Scotch. The laces of his running shoes were not cooperating with this plan, refusing to give as Nate collided with the doorjamb and awkwardly shuffled inside. 

The duffel bag lying in his entryway stopped him short. 

He looked up, his heart beating in his ears, not quite believing it. Brad was here. But—

Brad had called an hour ago; he'd figured he had some time. He was going to cook...something. Order pizza, maybe. Get better beer, definitely. 

It occurred to him that he must look absurd, drenched in sweat, still bent over and yet gawking at Brad like a fish.

Brad seemed wholly unperturbed, simply sat playing with Nate's laptop—oh, fuck, _his laptop_. After the initial adrenaline spike, he could hear something other than his own heartbeat. He wished he couldn't; the moaning sounded loud and accusing in the silence.

Brad's eyes finally flicked up. "Marine Corps porn? Really?"

Nate pulled his head together and rustled up some dignity. He straightened and kicked off his damn shoes, screw the heel counter anyway. 

"I was feeling nostalgic," he said, refusing to admit to the embarrassment. At least he was already flushed from his run so his skin couldn't give him away. 

"For your time as a twink gay porn star? Because this says fuck-all about the Corps."

"But the uniforms are so hot," Nate shot back, shedding his socks and heading for the bathroom. 

"They're not even the right uniforms. This guy's wearing surplus Army camo from fuckin' Vietnam. If you have a very generous definition of 'wearing.'"

Nate paused and looked at Brad. "We could keep talking about the porn on my computer." He stripped off his sodden shirt and dropped it to the floor with a pointed, wet _thwap_. "If you want." 

Nate walked into the bathroom, smirking at the sound of Brad getting to his feet. 

***

His quads hated him and his knees might stage a revolt, but none of it compared to the sound Brad made when Nate swallowed him down, the reflexive way he grabbed at the shower door for support. Nate never thought he'd get off on blowing someone else, but then, he never counted on Brad. 

Nate moaned and bobbed his head again. Brad just moaned.

He pressed teasing, soapy fingers to Brad's balls, then just behind, making Brad jerk. Nate loosened his throat and _swallowed_ , fingers pushing back to press at Brad's asshole.

Brad keened and sagged a little, arms keeping him upright, but just barely. 

Nate pushed a finger _in_ as he swallowed again. He could keep this up for a while. 

***

Brad had him bent at an impossible angle, fucking in with sharp, short thrusts that hit just _perfectly_ every goddamn time. Nate's legs splayed in the air would've been humiliating if he cared about anything other than Brad's cock sparking heat at the base of his spine. It was too much, but not enough—not enough to get him off, Nate grunting out his frustration as he gripped the headboard. 

He gave in.

"Fuck, Brad, _please_ —"

Brad's groan was pure pleasure. He fucked Nate harder, the headboard slapping into the wall.

Nate felt the tickle of Brad's breath against his foot. Then Brad's teeth sunk into the arch. Pain shot through him like a flare, pleasure trailing in its wake. The two became inseparable, pulsing through him as Brad pounded into him, stealing his breath and turning his vision to black.

***

Nate stirred, slow, movement like swimming through molasses, thinking not much better. 

Brad must have moved him to his side, cleaned them up, too. Nate didn't feel sticky discomfort, only the lingering euphoria and muscle aches characteristic of gloriously athletic sex. 

He flexed his muscles, cataloguing his body, what twinged, what protested. Brad's fingers traced over his shoulder, touching just to touch. Nate didn't remember his orgasm. "The fuck was that?" Nate rasped. 

Brad pulled his hand away at Nate's words. 

Nate blindly reached back, connected with Brad's arm and pulled him in so they were skin-to-skin again. 

Brad chuckled against his shoulder, breath hot, sending a delicious thrill all through Nate. "I fucked you so hard you passed out." He sounded inordinately pleased with himself. 

Nate smiled at the satisfaction in Brad's voice. He was inordinately pleased with Brad, too, and not just for the sex. It made it more difficult later, knowing how brilliant it could be absent any hope of having Brad in a real way...but that was later. For now Nate felt no need to fuck with his high. 

He hmmed contentedly, flexing his toes. Then he shifted back, pressing against Brad so he could have more of that skin, more of his touch. While he still had him. 

Brad huffed another laugh, pressed his mouth to Nate's skin. "You're something when you're all loose and fucked-out, like the cockslut you are." 

"Only when you drop by."

Brad's arm went tight around him. His pause was interestingly careful. "Maybe I could—I could see about getting transferred to Quantico."

Nate laced their fingers together. Squeezed. "Maybe you could."

***

Fin. Feedback is adored.


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